


A Gift of Time

by Arcadii



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:59:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcadii/pseuds/Arcadii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas should be a joyous time of year, but when tragedy strikes, will Napoleon be able to accept help from an unexpected source?</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift of Time

**Author's Note:**

> For Spikesgirl58

Napoleon quickly buttoned up his black cashmere top coat and shivered while brushing the snowflakes from his dark hair. Even the warmer air in the terminal wasn’t enough to help him recover from his brief trip down the airstairs and across the tarmac. It was a shock to his system, going from the balmy climes of Buenos Aires to the frigid snows of New York in a matter of hours no matter how many similar destinations or times he’d done it while working for UNCLE. 

The partners had separated, he to collect their luggage while Illya retrieved the car from the long term parking lot and hopefully have the heater blowing comfortably before Napoleon had to brave the elements again. He shivered at the thought of all of that snow, but grinned at the idea of Illya slogging knee deep in the cold, wet stuff. The grin got larger when he thought of Illya having to strip off those wet clothes and dry that perfectly pale skin with the softest of towels. 

Then he bent over to ruffle his blond hair dry and in so doing, Napoleon noticed that he’d missed some glistening drops in the middle of his back. It was easy to picture himself naked and rushing over to give his partner a hand . . . “Uhhh-hmmm” he heard as the man behind him cleared his throat. 

Snapping back to attention and grateful that the man wasn’t a THRUSH agent, Napoleon quickly located his black Samsonite suitcase, as well as Illya’s scuffed, but sturdy Russian model and excused himself out of the impatiently disapproving man’s way. A red-headed stewardess from their flight walked toward him with a big, bright smile. At any other time in his life, he would’ve already made arrangements to meet her for drinks, a late supper and a quick tumble into the bed of a random hotel room of his choice. 

Lately, it seemed that the only thing that got his libido running was the thought of his partner’s deceivingly delicate, petite form. It excited him even more to know that beneath that seemingly fragile body was a frame made of steel and the determination to match! And don’t even get him started on the man’s intelligence; Illya’s IQ might be higher, but Napoleon had more than his fair share of cunning, so in the end, they were pretty evenly matched. 

He acknowledged the air hostess . . . dredging through his memory, he remembered that she’d introduced herself as Lynn on the plane, but when he didn’t exhibit any interest, she pursed her lush, red lips in disappointment and walked around him. Trying to fan an ember of regret at the lost opportunity, Napoleon sighed as he tried to get the distracting thoughts of his partner out of his head. It was getting harder and harder to keep his attraction hidden and he had no doubt that if Illya found out, he’d beat Napoleon to within an inch of his life and then transfer out of UNCLE New York. Napoleon wasn’t sure which outcome he would dread more.

Watching out of the glass for his companion, Napoleon spotted the light blue Ford Galaxie as it pulled up to the loading zone. The senior agent frowned as he watched an airport security guard stop and stare at Illya getting out of the car. “Hey Beatle Boy, you can’t leave your car here!” The large, burly man adjusted the dark coat around his well-muscled upper body.

“Is there a problem officer?” Illya’s open trench coat flapped in the frigid breeze as he walked around the front of the car.

“Yeah, there’s a problem, Bud! I told you, you can’t park that piece of shit here!” The unpleasant man said with a heavy Bronx accent as he pulled out a billy-club and rubbed it along the collar of Illya’s coat, where his blond hair hung damply.

Napoleon hurried out, all thoughts of the cold flying out of his head at the threat to his partner. He saw the pleasant smile fade from the delicate features and the sparkling blue eyes harden in an expression that many a Thrush thug found was the last terrifying sight on this Earth that they’d ever see. Napoleon bounced back and forth on his heels while he waited for Illya to emasculate the power mad security guard.

The guard never knew what hit him. In a blink of an eye, Illya had the man spread-eagled against the fender of the car, his own club pressed into his back and an angry Russian hissing in his ear. “Do you often accost the patrons of this airport because they do not fall into your bigoted views of the public? It only takes someone with longer hair; an accent, such as mine or different colored skin to gain your notice and to be harassed? Well, I am afraid you have picked on the wrong pigeon today, my friend.” Releasing the man, Illya pulled out his yellow U.N.C.L.E. card and held it before the unblinking scowl of the guard. “What is your name and badge number? I will be notifying LaGuardia Security of your actions here today and I think by tomorrow you will be looking for other employment!”

The large man cowered away in fear, trying too late to save his career. “I’m sorry Mr. Carrieakers! I didn’t know you were an UNCLE agent. Let me help you put your things in your car.” 

Illya had winced at the mangling of his name as he walked around the man toward the back of the car, his lower lip protruding in irritation. “Napoleon, quit your smirking and put the bags in the trunk!”

Oh, that lip! He just wanted to suck on it and gently bite it until Illya was moaning and begging for more. Feeling himself rise to that vivid thought, Napoleon was glad that his coat was able to cover up the evidence as he thought, “Down Boy!” to his ‘little general.’ He’d better get that sexy scowl off of the Russian’s face and pronto. Following Illya to the now opened trunk, he handed Illya’s suitcase to him and with a smart salute said in a smarmy voice, “Right away Mr. Carrieakers, anything you say Mr. Carrieakers!”

After the trunk was quickly loaded with the lid slamming quickly enough that Napoleon had to snatch his hands from beneath it, Illya said blandly, with just the corners of his mouth upturned into a secretive smile, “That will be enough of that, Napoleon, or Mr. Waverly will find out just exactly how your latest suit was ruined as you’ve added it to this trips expense report. I do not think that being shredded by a jealous bevy of Argentinean beauties, all vying simultaneously for your attentions will fall within the U.N.C.L.E’s guidelines for ‘property destroyed in the line of duty,’ do you?”

Ignoring the almost prostrate guard, Napoleon got into the passenger’s door, protesting, “Ah, Illya, is that any way to treat your partner; the man who’s saved you from torture and death on occasions too numerous to count?”

Illya rolled his eyes as he watched the speeding traffic around him and checked all of the mirrors for a tail. The snow drifts were high on the side of the road, but the roads were well salted, so Illya sped along, anxious to get back to headquarters and write up their reports before they could go home and sleep. Contrary to what Napoleon thought, though he could sleep anywhere and often did, it wasn’t a restful sleep, especially with the dreams he’d been having lately.

The airport had been crowded, but now that they were in Manhattan, the streets were eerily deserted, due to it being Christmas Eve. With no warning before their emergency trip to Buenos Aires to stop a Thrush attempt at taking over the countries oil fields, Illya hadn’t shopped for nonperishable’s before they’d left; he knew that his apartment only contained sour milk, moldy bread and maybe a piece of petrified cheese. Well he’d survived on less when he was a child after the war in Kiev, he’d make due now. It was just that he’d gotten used to the decadent bounty that the grocery stores held, since coming here to America. ‘Pfah, I am spoiled and will have to be more vigilant against becoming too soft, I have even begun to let my mind think on other possibilities. All of this must stop if I am ever recalled back to Russia.’ He thought bitterly and then sighed.

Napoleon heard the sound and stopped looking out of the window at the darkened store fronts, worried about the suddenly drained look on his partner’s face. “We’re both tired and this assignment was grueling; I’m sorry that we can’t just go home Illya, but it’s a standing order that the reports have to be in before an agent is . . .” As they were crossing through the intersection on a green light, Napoleon noticed movement off to his right with his sharp hazel eyes. Turning his head, he saw a beaten up, white Buick station wagon running the red light and barreling down on them. “Illya, look out!”

Illya had also seen the motion and began to swerve the car, but he was unable to move the large sedan completely out of the path of the oncoming wagon and felt the impact as the momentum of the steel juggernaut rammed into them. The Galaxie rolled onto its side, its own momentum sending it sliding forward to jump the curb and plow into a fire hydrant. The other car never stopped after pushing them out of the way, it also jumped the sidewalk and buried itself into the plate-glass window of a thankfully closed store front.

 

Napoleon felt cold and wet as he slowly began to wake up, but there was something both lumpy and sharp under him. He couldn’t imagine what it could be. He remembered going to sleep in the double bed of their hotel room in Argentina . . . no wait, they’d finished that assignment. He slowly opened his eyes and saw the inside of their car, but it was at an odd angle. He was looking up at the passenger window, seeing the warm glow of the street lights and water was bubbling in from the broken windshield. For a moment panic filled his heart, “Illya, where are you Illya?”

He drove the fear back and made himself be still and silent. As his mind began to quiet, he took stock of his body and registered the mass that he was laying on. “Oh shit, Illya!” He tried to move gingerly, but gravity and limited space were against him. Finally, he was able to crawl over the seat and into the back of the car where he finally got a look at his partner.

Illya was laying face down along the driver’s door in an ever enlarging pool of freezing water from the cascade gushing in from the window. With no time to worry about broken bones, Napoleon grabbed the Russian by the shoulders and heaved him up and over the seat. Then using his size eleven Florsheim Varsity wing tips, he kicked out the rear window and dragged his unresponsive partner to safety.

Once they reached the snow covered sidewalk, Napoleon checked his partner’s vitals to find that he had no pulse and he wasn’t breathing. He started immediate CPR and after what seemed like an eternity, Illya had a slow and thready pulse accompanied by shallow erratic breathing. He then reached into his pocket for his communicator. In a grim no-nonsense voice, he said, “Open channel D, this is Solo . . . agent down, I repeat, I have an agent down.”

From the speaker on the communicating device he heard a tinny female voice ask frantically, “Napoleon, are you all right?”

Right now he was irritated beyond words, ignoring the concerned query, he repeated, “I have an agent down.” Hearing sirens in the distance, he added, “Local law enforcement and emergency help are on their way. Monitor local dispatch to find out our destination.”

The voice changed to that of an older man, “Was there Thrush involvement, Mr. Solo?”

“It doesn’t seem so, Sir, more than likely a drunk driver going home from a Christmas party.” Listening to the blaring horn coming from the deserted store, Napoleon looked down at his injured partner and thought bitterly, ‘The bastard probably won’t even have a scratch on him.’ 

 

Again time seemed to move at a snails pace when it felt like he’d been in the waiting room for hours. Once they’d been brought in, Illya was swarmed by doctors and nurses who removed him to an examination room, and the remaining medical personnel latched onto the injured CEA. He resisted, wanting to wait for word on Illya and afraid that he’d be ignored if he was in the back being treated himself. It seemed that the Solo luck was still in effect. He’d gotten out of the accident with only some minor bruising, stitches in his scalp and a pounding headache from where his skull had impacted with the passenger window during the crash.

He’d been wrong about the other driver being alright, though. When Mr. Waverly came in to check on him, he’d informed him that the man had a heart attack and was already dead before he’d even hit them. “We can take some comfort that it was an act of God and not an act of over indulgence . . . or Thrush, for that matter, Mr. Solo.”

Not feeling comforted at all, Napoleon responded dazedly, “Yes sir.” And then went back to staring at the double doors that stubbornly refused to open. Finally a grim faced man came out in a white lab coat that he failed to button, therefore making it useless as a cover for his bloody scrubs.

“Whose here for Kuryakin?” 

Napoleon and Mr. Waverly got up and walked over to the doctor. The man’s countenance made the younger man’s heart thud dully in his chest. Expecting to hear the worst, the doctor sighed tiredly and said, “I’m going to be straight with you, it doesn’t look good. His right shoulder was dislocated, his clavicle is broken, and both of his arms are broken as well as all of the fingers of his right hand. He’s broken six ribs and punctured his lung. His pelvis is crushed; his right hip is dislocated, with the right femur and tibia being broken as well. Amazingly, his skull, neck and spine seem to have come through intact.”

Napoleon watched the doctor as he described the long list of Illya’s injuries, but felt that the man was still holding something back. When the other shoe dropped, it was a doozy. Dr. Eberhart took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry, but that’s not the worst of it.” Looking toward Napoleon, he asked, “You resuscitated Mr. Kuryakin at the scene, correct?” When the dark haired man nodded, he continued. “Do you have any idea how long he’d been without air?” At the startled look on the younger man’s face, the doctor continued, “Mr. Kuryakin had quite a bit of water in his lungs indicating that he may have been without oxygen for a time. Depending on the deprivation, he may have sustained brain damage, but we won’t know for sure until he wakes up.”

“You mean if he wakes up!” Napoleon said bitterly. 

“Now, now Mr. Solo. Mr. Kuryakin has been thought lost many times and has surprised even you with his miraculous recoveries. Let us not count him out on this day of all days.” Mr. Waverly assured soothingly. Looking up at the clock, Napoleon realized that it was midnight and now Christmas. He thought of Illya’s presents under his small tree in his apartment and wondered if he’d ever be able to see the childlike delight from receiving a gift on the beloved face again. 

Worried about the defeated sound coming out of the indefatigable Chief Enforcement Agent, the elderly head of U.N.C.L.E. North America led his heir-apparent back into the waiting room to an unoccupied couch. “Why don’t you take forty winks, Mr. Solo and I’ll keep vigil for our Mr. Kuryakin.”

Feeling the steel beneath the warm grip and the benevolent smile, Napoleon still knew an order when he heard one, no matter how it was packaged. He stretched his five foot ten inch frame out along the cream colored Naugahyde sofa, the stiff vinyl feeling chilly against his cheek. Before he knew it, he felt someone shaking his shoulder; he started, realizing that he must’ve dropped off without knowing it. “I’m sorry Mr. Waver . . .” He looked up into the kindly eyes of a stranger.

He looked around and found himself alone in the waiting room. Sitting up with a lurch, his eyes narrowed in anger as his hands smoothed his dark hair back down into place. Staring at the stranger, he growled, “If this is some kind of joke, then I don’t find it very funny!”

“It isn’t a joke Napoleon! I’m here because I have something for you, even if you don’t believe in me anymore.” The tall man with long white hair a matching beard and dressed in a red velvet suit towered over the UNCLE agent from where he still sat on the couch. 

Feeling at a disadvantage, Napoleon stood up and was still dwarfed by the rotund giant. Sliding his finger along his nose, the agent tipped his head and cautiously in case it was a trap, asked, “What kind of something do you have for me?”

Santa dug through the large, red velvet sack that rested on the floor by his shiny, black patent leather boot. The pack looked empty, but when the jolly old elf reached in and dug around, he pulled out a small box wrapped in gold foil with a big red bow on the top. “You’ve been on my naughty list for quite some time, Napoleon, but lately you’ve been changing your ways. I think it might have something to do with that partner of yours. So as a reward, I’m giving you this . . .” He handed the gift to Napoleon.

Napoleon held the small package in the palm of his hand, unsure of what to do next. “Go on Napoleon, open it. You’re going to need it before the night is through!”

On the top of the box was a name tag that read: 

To: Napoleon  
From: Santa

 

Not standing on ceremony any longer, he ripped the paper from the box that was embossed with the words, John Cameron Swayze – Deluxe Edition. When Napoleon opened the box, he was astonished to find a Timex watch. Confused, he held up his expensive Rolex Oyster Precision watch with the added U.N.C.L.E. enhancements. “I’m afraid that I don’t need a watch, Santa, I already have one.”

“This isn’t just a watch, Napoleon; this is a gift of time for a man that knows how to use it . . . that knows how to use it . . . knows how to use it . . . how to use it . . . to use it . . . use it . . .” 

Before he knew it, he was being shaken on the shoulder. With a sense of Déjà Vu, Napoleon gave into the wake up call. “Mr. Solo, the doctor is here to give us more news on Mr. Kuryakin.” 

Heeding Mr. Waverly’s call, Napoleon sat up as Mr. Waverly took a seat beside him and they waited for Dr. Eberhart to cross over to them. Napoleon braced himself; with the bleak expression the doctor was wearing, he just knew that the news would be bad.

Always hating to break bad news, especially on Christmas, Dr. Eberhart decided that the only thing to do was to just jump in and get it over with. “I’m sorry Gentlemen, but Mr. Kuryakin succumbed to his injuries just a few moments ago. You are all in some sort of law enforcement, are you not?” He waited for the news to register with the stunned younger man; the elder gentleman’s eyes were filled with pain, but his face was serene as if he received news like this often. When Mr. Waverly nodded, Dr. Eberhart continued, “Then, I will leave the notifying of the next of kin, the disposition of the body and personal effects up to you. I am very sorry that we couldn’t have done more.” He got up and shook Mr. Waverly’s outstretched hand and left.

Napoleon just sat there unmoving staring straight ahead and feeling like his life was over. He could hear Mr. Waverly speaking to him, but the words stopped at his ears and weren’t allowed to travel to his brain. Out of habit, he turned his wrist to check the time when he found a Timex (John Cameron Swayze – Deluxe Edition) watch sitting there, the face almost seeming to stare at him.

Remembering the dream, a sense of wonder filled him as he thought that miracles can happen and maybe it wasn’t a dream after all. His brain was still in shock and it was hard to grasp at such an insubstantial thought as the time that they’d landed at LaGuardia. He pulled out the stem with his fingers and turned back the hands until the watch read, seven o’clock and he felt a rushing of air and the lights went out, like being in a runaway mining car speeding through a tunnel. 

Before he new it, he was back to watching for his partner out of the plate glass window. Not sure of what else to do, Napoleon decided to wait, letting things happen just like before as he spotted the light blue Ford Galaxie pulling up to the loading zone. Knowing what was going to happen, the senior agent still frowned as he wondered how often this happened while watching the airport security guard stop and stare at Illya as he got out of the car. “Hey Beatle Boy, you can’t leave your car here!” The large, burly man adjusted the dark coat around his well-muscled upper body.

“Is there a problem officer?” Illya’s open trench coat flapped in the frigid breeze as he walked around the front of the car.

“Yeah, there’s a problem, Bud! I told you, you can’t park that piece of shit here!” The unpleasant man said with a heavy Bronx accent as he pulled out a billy-club and rubbed it along the collar of Illya’s coat, where his blond hair hung down, damply.

Napoleon hurried out, even knowing the unfolding of events ahead of time couldn’t curtail the instinctive need to protect his partner. He saw the pleasant smile fade from the delicate features and the sparkling blue eyes as they hardened in an expression that many a THRUSH thug found was the last terrifying sight on this Earth that they’d ever see. Knowing what lay ahead of them, Napoleon didn’t feel like bouncing back and forth on his heels while awaiting his partner to decimate the pitiful excuse for a security guard.

As before, the guard never knew what hit him. In a blink of an eye, Illya had the man spread-eagled against the fender of the car, his own club pressed into his back and an angry Russian hissing in his ear. “Do you often accost the patrons of this airport because they do not fall into your bigoted views of the public? It only takes someone with longer hair; an accent, such as mine or different colored skin to gain your notice and to be harassed? Well, I am afraid you have picked on the wrong pigeon today, my friend.” Releasing the man, Illya pulled out his yellow U.N.C.L.E. card and held it before the unblinking scowl of the guard. “What is your name and badge number? I will be notifying LaGuardia Security of your actions here today and I think by tomorrow you will be looking for other employment!”

The large man cowered away in fear, trying too late to save his career. “I’m sorry Mr. Carrieakers! I didn’t know you were an UNCLE agent. Let me help you put your things in your car.”

Illya had winced at the mangling of his name as he walked around the man toward the back of the car, his lower lip protruding in irritation. “Napoleon, quit your smirking and put the bags in the trunk!”

All he had to do was close his eyes and picture Illya as he’d last seen him, a broken bloody mess, and this time there was no erection to control. He followed Illya to the now opened trunk and handed Illya’s suitcase to him and then his own, without comment.

After the lid was closed, Napoleon ignored the almost prostrate guard as he got into the passenger’s door silently. Illya slid into the driver’s seat, turning the key in the ignition and then revved the motor a few times, taking pleasure in the powerful engine. Normally he enjoyed the calm, but something was wrong . . . it wasn’t like Napoleon to be so quiet after the successful completion of a mission. He was usually still too high on adrenalin to be able to sit this silently. Knowing if he asked, Napoleon would remain stoically unspoken – he could almost be Russian at times – he decided the best course of action would be to tease the glum agent into a reaction. 

The corners of Illya’s mouth upturned into a secretive smile, “How will you keep Mr. Waverly from finding out about your latest suit and the manner in which it was ruined since you are adding it to this trips expense report. I do not think that being shredded by a jealous bevy of Argentinean beauties, all vying simultaneously for your attentions will fall within the U.N.C.L.E’s guidelines for ‘property destroyed in the line of duty,’ do you?”

Preoccupied, Napoleon turned his head from where he’d been looking out of the window. “I’m sorry, Illya, what did you say?”

Illya rolled his eyes as he watched the speeding traffic around him and checked all of the mirrors for a tail. “Honestly, Napoleon, you could at least give me the courtesy of paying attention to the conversation. What is it, did you spot a tail?” He asked, worried that his fatigue and preoccupation with his partner had made him miss something. Contrary to what Napoleon thought, though he could sleep anywhere and often did, it wasn’t a restful sleep, especially with the dreams he’d been having lately.

Feeling his stomach tighten with the knowledge of what was just a few minutes ahead of them, Napoleon stared forward and then making a decision, he turned to his partner, “No, I didn’t spot a tail, but I have been thinking . . .”

“A dangerous endeavor, my friend.” Illya interjected with another small smile as he navigated the well salted Brooklyn-Queens Expressway with the snow piled high in drifts on the side of the road. He was anxious to get back to headquarters and write up their reports so they could go home and sleep. 

As they began to cross the bridge, Napoleon ignored the interruption and turned in his seat to face the Russian, “It’s Christmas Eve. I’m sure even ‘the old man’ would understand if we waited to do the reports tomorrow. Let’s go to my apartment; I have something there I need to show you!”

Biting his lip with indecision, Illya looked worriedly at his partner, “Are you sure, Napoleon? You know that filing reports immediately upon completion of a mission is one of Mr. Waverly’s ‘set in stone’ commandments.”

“I’m sure, my friend, everything is going to work out just fine!” Napoleon reached over, clasping Illya’s warm, living shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Illya had always trusted Napoleon with his life, now he’d have to trust that he could keep Mr. Waverly from handing them both their butts on a silver platter. “What ever you say, Napoleon, you are the CEA.” He said aloud and then muttered under his breath, “And hopefully, that will still be so tomorrow.” 

Illya turned at the next light – a full block before the location of the accident, prior to Napoleon changing time. The senior agent didn’t let out a sigh of relief and didn’t know if he’d ever be able to again. It chilled him to his marrow, thinking that Illya had died . . . could die without ever knowing how much he meant to his partner and he decided here and now that that was going to change.

Suddenly he heard his communicator go off. Reaching into his inner pocket, he pulled it out and uncapped it. “Open channel D, Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo, I’ve decided that you and Mr. Kuryakin needn’t come back to headquarters tonight to fill out your reports. It is Christmas Eve after all, and the two of you have had your hands full, what with THRUSH’s latest bid for world domination. I dare say you both could do with a little time off, as it were. Be at your desks bright and early on the 26th, won’t you?”

Surprised and relieved, Napoleon said sincerely, “Thank you, Mr. Waverly!”

“Oh, and Mr. Solo . . .”

“Yes sir?”

“Merry Christmas to you both!”

“And a Merry Christmas to you as well, Sir! See you on the 26th.”

Illya gave Napoleon an astonished look and asked, “What do you think has come over Mr. Waverly? He has never rescinded that order. Not even when we came back from the Sudan after that red spitting cobra sprayed venom in my eyes and you were bruised from head to toe after some THRUSH goons turned you into a punching bag. I was temporarily blinded with bandages swathed around my head and you could hardly move, but he insisted since we were ambulatory, it was imperative that we come in and fill out our reports.”

Napoleon grinned, “I’m not sure, partner mine, maybe Dickens’ Christmas spirits have paid a visit to our boss. Whatever the reason, I’m not going to question it; I’m just going to enjoy it. Now, home James, and don’t spare the horses!” 

 

With it being Christmas Eve, the traffic was incredibly sparse and Illya hit every light on green, making their trip to Central Park West a miracle in of itself. After passing through security, Illya parked the car in the empty spot next to Napoleon’s red Austin Healey. Getting out, they both went over to the elevator and pushed the button. After the cab arrived, Napoleon took out his key and unlocked the security block for the penthouse floor.

The elevator opened into the pristine, white Italian marble of the foyer and crossing it brought them to Napoleon’s door. He unlocked the door and they quickly moved inside so that he could deactivate the alarm. Once inside they were greeted by a most savory odor, wafting through the apartment from the kitchen. Napoleon went in cautiously through the service door to investigate and found a horseradish crusted rib roast, done to perfection and resting on the cutting board. In the warmer were casseroles of au gratin potatoes and creamed spinach and on the table under a crystal dome he found a chocolate hazelnut torte next to an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne.

Illya had wandered along the hall, stepping down into the sunken living room to stand in front of the couch. He stared into the fireplace soaking in the warmth that radiated from the cheery logs as they crackled there. Next to the fireplace stood a six foot scotch pine decorated in white lights, crimson satin ribbons and bows with gold balls hanging from the boughs. Illya shouted toward the kitchen, “I thought you said you only had a small artificial tree, Napoleon. Unless I’m mistaken, my nose tells me this is no synthetic tree and it is far from being small.”

Napoleon had pushed through the swinging kitchen door into the dining room to discover that the table had been romantically set for two with china, crystal, a linen table cloth, tapered candles and a good bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Napoleon was bewildered on how someone could get into his apartment without setting off the alarms and more importantly, their motive for doing so seemed to be just providing a Christmas dinner for him and Illya. 

Hearing his partner’s voice from the living room, he started heading that way when he tripped over something on the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he found a large, red velvet sack. Reaching into it, Napoleon at first thought it was empty until his hand found the very bottom of the bag where something scratched against his hand. He pulled it out to find a red envelope addressed to him with a sprig of Mistletoe tied to the envelope by means of a piece of ribbon. Opening the envelope, he found a card:

 

Napoleon,

Sometimes it takes a kiss for soul mates  
to recognize each other. Don’t let fear  
rob you of the greatest gift in the world.

Santa

 

Napoleon tucked the card and the sack in a cabinet under his sideboard before continuing back into his living room where he found his partner sitting on the sofa, watching the fire flicker. “What did you say, Illya?” He asked as he sat down beside his fellow agent.

“I asked about the tree and the fire . . . and by the way, Napoleon, what is that marvelously delicious smell?” Illya asked as his stomach gurgled.

Napoleon chuckled, “That, partner mine, is our dinner and it’s getting cold so I think we’d better adjourn to the dining room.”

“But Napoleon, how did you arrange all of this? It is almost as if you had everything planned including Mr. Waverly consenting to giving us the time off.” Illya cocked his head and eyed his partner suspiciously.

Chuckling again, Napoleon led Illya into the dining room; his arm wrapped around the smaller mans shoulders. “I can’t take all of the credit; I seem to have acquired some friends in very high places.”

 

If hours earlier, Napoleon had pondered on how he would be spending Christmas morning, he never would’ve imagined it would be lying in bed with his partner’s head resting on his chest after a bout of very energetic love making.

Napoleon smiled when he remembered how much Illya had enjoyed the dinner and was so preoccupied when the dessert was served, that he didn’t notice Napoleon holding the Mistletoe over his head. When he felt something brush his hair, he looked up with wide blue eyes as his partner moved toward him until their lips brushed together. That simple kiss opened a flood gate as they both were finally able to release the passion that had been building since they’d been partnered.

Lying in bed hours later, sated, with their bodies pressed together, legs entwined, Napoleon thought about how close he came to losing this without ever even knowing it in the first place. He tenderly kissed the blond strands just below his chin and cupped the satin skinned hip, possessively, whispering, “I love you, Illya.”

“I love you as well, Napoleon, but you have exhausted me and I only want to sleep now.” Illya muttered drowsily into his chest until hearing a noise, he lifted his head and with bleary eyes he asked, “Did you hear that, Napoleon? It sounded like sleigh bells.”

Napoleon pressed the tousled head back into its place on his chest, as his chuckle vibrated in his Russian’s ear, delightedly. “Illya, we’re on the 40th floor, how could you hear sleigh bells all of the way up here? You were just dreaming, Sweetheart, now go back to sleep.”

When Illya’s only response to the endearment was a soft snore, Napoleon kissed the top of the blond head again before checking his watch for the time. It was an ordinary cheap watch with a black leather band and besides the sleeping bundle using him as a mattress, it was the most precious thing he had. He smiled when he remembered the inscription:

To the man who knows  
how to use the gift of time.  
SC

He may have convinced Illya that it was just a dream, but he knew better. Napoleon sent a silent ‘thank you’ into the ether, knowing that it would be heard and snuggled back down into the mattress to enjoy his long winters nap.

 

~The End ~


End file.
